


Fallen: Devil

by soulless_lover



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, Breathplay, Choking, Demon Logic, M/M, Obsession, Oh Sebastian, POV First Person, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Confusion, Shota, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_lover/pseuds/soulless_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I come into his room and although I put him to bed over an hour ago, he is lying awake, a sweet-scented morsel waiting to be devoured; I shed my garments without ceremony and the sultry perfume clings to my skin like a vapor, teasing my body from every angle until I must fight to remain in human form and not allow myself to fall into savagery.</p><p> </p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1123587">Fallen</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen: Devil

It is one of those evenings again – when the wind suddenly turns cold and whips at my hair and my garments; when the sky rolls over to show its dark underbelly and growls an ominous warning; when all the servants in the manor rush to close the windows before the rain begins to pour into the house; when the air is heavy and carries the sweet scent of moisture and summer flowers… and the arousal of my young master.

Every lightning storm brings with it a curious increase in his sexual desires, and I have yet to discern why; certainly, I have encountered humans in my lifetime who found the patter of rain on the roof or rain-soaked clothing and wet kisses to be erotic, but this odd creature is the only one I have yet discovered to be carnally stirred by tempests of wind and rain and lightning. The more violent the storm, the greater the scent rising from him, often driving me to distraction as I attempt to perform mundane tasks… or worse, intimate duties such as dressing him, brushing his teeth, and – Hell give me strength – _bathing_ him. Ah, a devil could go mad just from the scent, let alone when it’s thickened by steam and its source is lying in a tub of hot water naked and helpless, his foolish, trusting eyes shut to keep out the lather as I massage the rose-petal soap through his dripping hair. 

The first time I noticed it, a little less than a year ago, it took all I had to ignore it, thinking it a coincidence of timing – perhaps he’d stumbled across some French postcards tucked into a book in the library as he waited out the bad weather or some such. Then, a few months later, another violent storm blew in, and that maddening scent reappeared, permeating his clothing like cigar smoke and curling around me in luscious, tickling tendrils as I bent to place his dinner in front of him. How I’d stared at his small pink mouth opening for each morsel of food and closing daintily around the tines of the fork, his innocent tongue brazenly lapping the remainders of chocolate sauce from his dessert spoon… it was exquisite and intolerable, made even more so by the apparent fact that he was completely unaware of the sensuality of his actions. As the boy had not yet allowed me to touch him in any sort of lewd manner at that time, I did not tear his clothing from him, bend him over the table, and thoroughly educate him in sexual matters – though I dearly wanted to, and it was a very close call. 

However, the next storm that was strong enough to produce this desire in my young master was a handful of weeks after I first bedded him, and he was much more receptive to my attentions; unfortunately, I had held off on responding to his frustrating storm-scent for so long that I allowed my self-restraint to slip a bit and I was rather rougher with him than I intended. I was immensely glad to discover afterwards that I had not torn him, and he had no substantial injuries other than some bruises and a curved row of puncture wounds on the side of his neck where I’d bitten him in a fit of passion. I expected him to be quite angry with me and apologized profusely for my lustful and violent behavior, and this strange, charming little human stared at me in complete confusion for a moment, slapped me once across the face very hard, then twined his arms about my neck like rose-vines and kissed me with a fervor so hot that I laid him out and mounted him again then and there.

This evening’s thunderstorm is particularly savage, with fierce winds that make the treetops bow and sway, a hard, driving rain that batters the windowpanes, frequent flashes of almost painfully bright lightning, and thunder so loud it shakes the roof and makes the beams creak. As evening turns into night, the fragrance of my young master’s want becomes so strong, so aromatic, it fills the entire house with its heady, alluring call and I can scarcely think, let alone focus on my work – I’ve been partially aroused for hours, completely hard for the last three-quarters of an hour, and painfully stiff for the last ten minutes. I must have him, and I must have him now, or I shall go insane.

I come into his room and although I put him to bed over an hour ago, he is lying awake, a sweet-scented morsel waiting to be devoured; I shed my garments without ceremony and the sultry perfume clings to my skin like a vapor, teasing my body from every angle until I must fight to remain in human form and not allow myself to fall into savagery.

I throw the bedding aside and rip the night-shirt from his body, and he trembles and stares up at me with wide eyes… but he does not smell of fear, not one shred of it – it is all for show, and he is not afraid of me in the slightest. This both fascinates and irritates me, for despite the satisfying realization that he trusts me enough to not be terrified even as I stare down at him with a hunger so powerful I’m salivating, it is deeply insulting to me as a devil to be regarded so blandly. I have very little of what humans call pride, as it is a pointless and counter-productive emotion in most situations, but by Hell, I will _not_ be thought of as a harmless toy this arrogant child can fool with a pretend shiver and a shy glance.

I catch his wrists in one hand and pin him down, then tease and torment his body for a moment, trying to make him struggle, trying to provoke some defensive reaction… but I get none. What is _wrong_ with him? Does he not realize the danger he is in? Does he think that because I will not violate the contract by killing him, I am no threat to him at all? The very thought infuriates me, and before I can stop myself, I seize his fragile little throat in one hand and squeeze… and still he lies there, looking up at me with those flat, accepting eyes, so I bend down to his ear and remind him that I could crush the life out of him, crush his windpipe, snap his neck with just a twitch of my fingers. He swallows hard against my palm but says nothing; he moves not an inch; and the scent rolling off of him is still desire, not fear.

Perhaps because I am holding his wrists, he believes he should not move – so I release them to roughly spread his legs. Surely he will defend himself _now_ , with the threat of violation looming so near… but he does not even blink. And when I bend down to lick and suck him to full arousal, he has the sheer, unmitigated _gall_ to thrust deeper into my mouth! I give the tender, hairless flesh at the base a little nip, just enough to draw a few drops of blood for me to lap up, and instead of being disgusted by this display of monstrous bloodlust, the little wretch actually stiffens further!

He fakes a little cry of pain and I scoff at him, pointing out his hard, dripping state, and when I examine his face, what I see there isn’t the fear I’m longing for – it’s shame. He’s embarrassed by his own desire, despite the fact that I’ve just spent nearly fifteen minutes stimulating him, and of _course_ he’s going to be hard, through no fault of his own. It strikes me as so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh, and although at any other time he would hiss at me like an affronted cat and tell me to shut up… he does not.

I’m so hard and so heavy by this point that I’m almost desperate to have him, and I set about opening him up as quickly as possible, raising him to my mouth and plunging my tongue into him. He squirms and writhes and whimpers, and in hardly any time at all he’s relaxed enough for me to push two fingers into him, which I do straightaway, although it’s a bit too soon and I inadvertently hurt him; he cries out and I attempt to soothe him by licking the inside of his thigh, lightly, gently. I remember the first time I came to him during a storm, how roughly I’d entered him after minimal preparation, and I have to laugh – that had to have hurt far more than what I’m doing now, and his spurious displays of distress would be amusing if they weren’t so insulting. I ask him rather sarcastically if what I’ve just done was painful, and when he says nothing, I remind him that it isn’t the first time he’s been forced open. The look that crosses his face is one of shock and horror, and he must turn his head to the side and squeeze his eyes shut to hide his expression from me; as he does so, I finally catch the scent I’ve been so wanting from him: fear.

But this is not an immediate fear, not the fight-or-flight fear humans experience when threatened – it’s spiced with disgust and fury, more revulsion than actual fear, and I suddenly understand: he’s not thinking of that first stormy encounter, that time I was so hungry and careless that I worried afterwards that I might have severely injured him. He’s thinking of _them_ , those degenerate cultists who tore him open and used him and battered him and left him a bloody, sobbing mess… and my frustration spikes into rage. 

I would never do to him what they did – for devils are evil, but humans? Humans are vile, forever inventing barbaric acts to inflict upon one another – and I've no need to take by force that which is freely given me, certainly not when it comes with something as delicious as an increase in this trust, this bond, and my power. And yet there he lies, comparing me to the nightmares in his mind, equating my actions to the cruelties those loathsome humans subjected him to, going so far as to shut his eyes to banish me. 

The resentment and jealousy exacerbate my rage until it becomes a rancorous flame that consumes me before I can even acknowledge it; I will not be banished, I will not be a part of his most hated memories, I will _not_ lose the bond, the power, the _trust_ I have worked so hard to foster with this boy! I must make him see, must force him to recognize my face, my intention, the depth of my desire for him! He _must_ understand that I would never violate him in such a foul manner, that my thirst for him is no mere animal display of dominance!

I tell him not to look away from me, and when he remains withdrawn, I squeeze his throat just enough to garner his attention; I command the little human to look at me, and to my great relief, he does. I am not them, I say, struggling to form the words around the bitter venom that seems to have filled my mouth. I must make you understand, my little lord – do you hear, I am not them!

They would not lift you with such gentleness, Young Master; they would sooner press you roughly down onto a cold stone floor than rest you atop their thighs like this; they likely did not even use oil to ease your suffering, whereas I will gladly produce copious amounts of glistening fluid from my own body, to ensure that you are as comfortable as possible! Look at me as I enter you, look at me, _see_ me; be here with me, and not in that dank cellar I plucked you from! I brought you out of there with my own hands, and you are no longer their slave – you are mine, and I am _not them!_

I realize with a sudden shock of horror that I am effectively strangling him, and I immediately loosen my grip; he gasps for air, the sound immediately breaking into short cries as I pound into him, over and over and over—

He whimpers my name, the name he gave me, and I know that he has come back to me. 

I spill into him with a harsh cry of satisfaction, relief, and pleasure, shaking all over as I fight to keep my form, filling him with everything I can give; for although he is mine, I am his as well, and I would never give him anything less than all of me.

I look down at him, and he is studying my face with those bright, luminous eyes, still unafraid, but visibly shaken. His white throat is ringed with bruises, he is panting and short of breath, and _still_ he gazes up at me in some kind of morbid fascination, as though he is trying to figure me out. Oh, why did I ever want those eyes to look at me with fear? Why did I ever think such a bland and commonplace emotion would be preferable to the rich, complex fire dancing behind those lovely mismatched irises?

I have been an absolute fool.

I gather him up and hold him upon my lap, showering him with kisses, and he wraps his little arms around my neck as though I haven’t been terribly heartless to him tonight, and this seemingly forgiving gesture strikes me as somehow divine. I caress him, fondle him, treating him as gently as possible until his desire has begun to smolder again; I lie back and coax him into sitting astride me, and he glides up and down smoothly, his delicate little hands splayed across my chest. Ah, my young master, the tattered flower I plucked from the darkness, my darling, damaged little creature filled with red-hot hatred and crowned with a soul as pure and white as new-fallen snow; he is both a child and the oldest of jaded men, at once surrounded by darkness and blinding me with his fierce light, showing me his affections by hurling barbed insults and spiteful words at me. He is the strongest of any human I have ever known, and yet he is as fragile as spun sugar - and just as sweet in the soft, secret places he guards so jealously. My little contractor, who gave up any chance of seeing Heaven to fall into my arms and ride me into Hell. Ah, my fallen angel.

His lovely pink mouth falls open and he cries out in ecstasy; he is trembling as he spends all over my front, anointing me with hot fluid that spatters across my abdomen, my ribs, my chest; the sight of him above me, lost in pleasure, combined with the scent of him, the feel of him squeezing me in delightful, rippling waves… it is too much, and I am filling him again, his clenching muscles wringing every last drop from me.

He is clearly exhausted, so I bring him to rest on the pillows and hold him in my arms, murmuring to him in the soft, lilting tones of a lullaby. After some time, he tells me that the feeling of me inside him has become uncomfortable, so I withdraw, albeit admittedly with some reluctance – I very much enjoy the sensation of being inside him, the heat of him, the movement as he breathes. However, I must think of his needs first – I have indulged my own selfish desires quite enough for one night!

His head shifts on the pillow, and he looks up at me again; those beautiful eyes are glassy and half-lidded with drowsy satiation, his soft cheeks are rosy and warm, and his normally cynical smirk has relaxed into a small but genuine smile. It’s a rare sight, and I’ve only begun to process this when he suddenly informs me that I shall be sleeping in his bed _just this once_ , and I cannot help but smile back at him. I tell him he is too generous, and when he says nothing, I kiss his brow, damp with salty sweat. He curls into my embrace, pressing his face against my chest, his arms folded childishly between us – and although he has commanded me to sleep, he has not specified for how long, so I take the opportunity to lie awake most of the night and watch him sleep instead. 

Humans are such fragile creatures, and they live for such an incredibly short time; they are weak and simple, with their shallow desires and petty grievances; they are so greedy and self-centered that many of them choose to murder the helpless rather than give up the tiniest scrap of their own luxury. I ought to see them all as mere cattle, savory meals on walking platters, as it were – but this one is different. And although he is just as self-centered, just as greedy, just as shallow and petty as any other human… in him such things are almost endearing. It makes not a bit of sense, even to me, but as I watch him sleep, I find I do not really care. He is mine and I am his, and that is all that matters.

And then, quite suddenly, I notice it - that maddening storm-scent. I check to see if the young master is awake, but he is sleeping as soundly as he ever has - probably more so - and his breathing is the slow, even pattern of one ensconced in deep, dreamless sleep. I consider my surroundings, and note that the storm has begun to pick up somewhat; it died down into a lulling patter of rain some time ago, and if it's increasing in intensity now, and the young master is _asleep_ — 

Oh. Oh, my.

The one affected by the storms is not my little lord – it is _I._

 _I_ am the one whom the violent tempests whip into a froth… and this in turn makes his scent even more appealing to me… and this in turn provokes me to aggressively proposition him… and he has become so accustomed to it that he lies awake and _waits_ for me to come to him.

I may very well be an even more colossal fool than I previously thought.

Ah, my angelic little hellion of a master… which of us has truly fallen?


End file.
